


Silk

by seperis



Category: Smallville
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-01-20
Updated: 2002-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:18:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3241085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark's having a very personal problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silk

* * *

Clark has no idea how Lex talked him into this. Not that much talking, per se, was involved....

"Clark?"

Little leap from the edge of the big desk in the Torch's office, and he _*knows*_ he's turning all the colors of a sunset in front of Chloe. Wide blue eyes stare into his, an unsettling combination of curiosity and suspicion warring in their depths. 

The way-too-interested gaze travels down, fixing around his groin, and there's a horrible feeling that she _*knows*_ , though God, she can't see through denim and a cable knit sweater, can she? Looking down, he sees her eyes fixed on his hands, stroking slowly along his own thighs, vaguely pornographic and oh damn, so very not normal.

Jerking his hands aside, he grabs for the edge of the desk, looking up at her with his best dorky smile. A get-out-of-questions-free-because-I'll-pretend-I'm-dense smile, that works, oh, about one time in ten these days, but still. He has to try.

"New jeans?" she asks, obviously searching for a way to ask when exactly he picked up a fetish for tactile study of his own legs. Sucking in a breath, he forces himself to relax.

"No. Just. Um. Bored." Oh lame, lame, * _lame*_. God, Pete could do better in his _*sleep*_. And has told him that, too. "Whatcha doing?"

"Better question, what are you doing here?" Putting her backpack on the floor, she spears him with a sharp look that he feels down to the bottoms of his feet. Oh damn. "The Torch office usually isn't open this period."

Well, yeah. Called desperation, Chloe, in case you're curious. "I was--ah, going to check on that article you were doing on--" Football? Cheerleaders? Air? Meteors? "--school budget cuts."

Inspired. Chloe's face instantly becomes all-business--a look that school administrators have grown to fear and students have learned to avoid. Chloe on a mission. A force to be reckoned with, at one with mountains that do not move and tides that always come in. 

So he's getting better at the lying thing after all.

"Don't you have class now?" she asks, already hunting through the desk for a pen, and God, he's glad the article's sitting on the desk where she left it yesterday. Perfectly plausible alibi. He's all kinds of grateful to investigative journalism today.

"Uh--" Class, right. That thing he's avoiding. A shift on the desk makes him slide a little inside his jeans, and he holds on tighter, drawing in a deep breath that with any kind of luck isn't as close to a moan as it feels. Right. _*That's*_ the reason he's hiding in here. "Um. Test. Got out early." 

Like Mrs. Matthews would let anyone out of class early for anything short of actual death.

"Oh." Thank God for student budget cut articles and single minded focus. Pushing himself upright, Clark grabs his backpack from the floor. No reason to push his luck. "Clark--"

"Bell's about to ring. I'd better--" The silky brush against his thighs makes him tense--God, yes, no, don't think, don't _*think*_ , Clark. "Um. Go. Bye!" 

He gets a glimpse of a surprised Chloe-face before the door shuts between them, and there's a chance he just used superspeed for the dumbest reason ever. Sucking in a breath, he takes a step, gritting his teeth against the sensual brush of silk, amazing against the skin on his inner thighs, like someone's fingers are just steadily stroking, all the--

Definitely time for a bathroom break.

* * *

One hand braced on the wall behind the toilet, Clark considers that he's reached an all-time high of weirdness on the generalized scale, and that's really saying something. Reaching down, he closes his eyes, fingers sliding blindly over the zipper to the button, flicking it open and yes, his luck's still here, he doesn't rip _*anything*_. The zipper slides down with a pull, and Clark feels another flush stain his cheeks hot and hard as he presses the heel of his hand to warm--hot--silk.

Warm, hot-with-a-growing-damp-spot silk, and God, he's supposed to get through an entire * _day*_ like this?

Stupid skin that really _*really*_ likes the feel of silk, an observation Lex must have picked up during Clark's unfortunate time as a well-dressed sociopath. Silk. This amazing, smooth, just gorgeous stuff that God, how do people _*wear*_ it and _*not*_ touch themselves all day? Lex has clothes made of it that Clark's spent quality time mauling to his heart's content, sheets he's rolled around all, fuck the lack of coolness factor, and he knows that the increase in the number of the custom fitted silk shirts Lex wears now has a lot to do with Clark's complete and utter enslavement. 

His cock shifts beneath his palm, and Clark bites down on his lip, trying to think of--snow. Ice. Big bales of hay. Lex sprawled in ambiguous invitation on one such bale only weeks (God, only _*weeks*_?) ago, the ambiguousness pretty much a given with any situation involving Lex, of course, but this time, Clark had sort of forgotten about the wait-and-see part of the show.

Forgot pretty much everything with the first glimpse of pale skin just beneath the loosened tie and unbuttoned top button, grey collar lightly spread, and so the fuck what if it was like, thirty outside, Lex looked just a little too warm in the loft that day, a faint flush of pink over his cheeks, grinning about--hell, something, what, he was supposed to _*listen*_ with Lex looking like that?

A little sweat glistening in the hollow of his throat, shiny in the afternoon sunlight. Grinning up at Clark, able to make a bale of hay look as comfortable and right as a chair in his own office. Completely impossible * _not*_ to sit down by him, a brush of silk against his fingers that could have been by accident, but hey, admit it here if no where else, Clark, you were so copping a feel of your best friend's grey silk shirt.

And that hadn't been, by the way, the most manly moment in his life, what with his fingers rhythmically brushing Lex's silk-covered chest and Lex staring at him as if he'd lost his mind.

__

\--"*Clark?*"--

Probably even less so when Clark kissed him--and no, no excuse for _*that*_ one, and while baseline heterosexual boys might get off on the feel of silk, they didn't usually make out with the male friend wearing the silk in question.

And Lex's skin was a lot like silk, too. Especially that soft place on the back of his neck that tasted like soap and sweat, and his lips, too impossibly smooth and slick.

"Oh, fuck you, Lex," he murmurs, hoping to God no one comes in right now. Rubbing frantically, he can almost imagine it's Lex's hand touching him--like that first time in the study two days later, leaning up against the desk, Lex being Lexlike and logically pointing out why, while making out in barns was maybe a fun recreational past time, it probably wasn't the brightest idea to continue doing it there. Or anywhere. Ever.

Right. What _ever_.

Green silk, Clark remembers with a sudden grin. Fine, almost the illusion of translucency, shifting like water beneath his hands. Incredibly smooth, easy to grab and hold on, and Lex had tasted like brandy and peppermint, tongue wrapped around his, and Clark had been thinking that anyone could walk in and see this and he wouldn't care. How Lex's fingers had wrapped around his and Lex's mouth had fixed on his jaw, and the way one thigh slid between Clark's and fuck, they were making out on a desk, which was a step up from a cold barn, definitely, and Clark came with Lex's silk shirt wadded in his hands and Lex's name caught between clenched teeth.

Oh, he's supposed to be calming himself _*down*_ now. 

"I'm going to kill you, Lex." His cock aches, God, has ached since he left this morning, his body completely confused by the presence of silk and the sheer lack of Lex wrapped in it. Wondering what the _*fuck*_ was going on when he was sitting in class and it felt like Lex was kneeling between his legs, silk-clad shoulders brushing against his inner thighs, like he does seconds before he goes down on Clark, red lips and hot mouth and oh fuck--

"God, Lex, yeah, please, touch me--"

Oh damn.

He comes with a start, barely enough time to jerk the silk out of the way, and it feels scarily good and kinda wrong, because, God, this is a school _*bathroom*_ , arguably the second least sexy place on earth, right behind his parent's bedroom.

Well, a little late for non-arousing thoughts like _*that*_. Flushing so hard he's sure he must show up on some kind of heat-reading sensors, Clark cleans up quickly, tucking himself back in, shivering at the feel of the boxers clinging to his not-completely-dry skin. It's almost enough to cause a stir, and Clark grits his teeth together at the soft, warning twitch. The reminder that yeah, he's adolescent, and yeah, he's pretty much doomed to a life of either getting off, wishing he was getting off, or breathing unsteadily just after getting off, at least for a few more years.

Especially wearing the fabric equivalent of an aphrodisiac all _*damn*_ day, and right, what _*was*_ he thinking?

Zipping his jeans, he drops the wad of toilet paper in the toilet, catching the scent of himself on his hands. Him _*and*_ Lex, bizarre as that sounds, that ultraexpensive, subtly-scented, faintly musky tang underneath everything, that he can smell _*right now*_ , and no, he's _*not*_ getting hard just from that thought.

Still flushed, he pushes open the stall door, emerging into blessed, oh good, blessed quiet. No one else around. Just perfect. Going to the sink, he washes his hands, glancing up to see the flushed face staring back at him. Nowhere near sated, really. Looking at his watch, he sighs. 

It's only ten o'clock in the morning. This is going to be a hell of a long day.

* * *

Lunch is a new and slightly merrier version of hell than the bathroom. Students everywhere, no place to hide, and Clark knows, _*knows*_ they're looking at him and thinking, that boy is wearing silk boxers under his jeans and likes them far too much.

Paranoid? Him?

"Clark? You look a little flushed," Lana observes with a beautiful grasp of the obvious, sitting down across from him and opening her milk with an efficient twist of her wrist. Pete glances up from a concerted battle with the meatloaf, giving him another one of those half-curious, half-amused looks. Wondering maybe if superblushing is, in fact, a brand new power Clark has to deal with. Great. Just great.

"You know Lana, he does," Chloe observes as she slides in beside him, and wouldn't it just figure? Clark sends a desperate savemesavemesavemesaveme look Pete's way. 

"You think?" Pete does an exaggerated show of looking him up and down, smirk in place, and oh damn, next time a meteor-rock mutant comes after _*any*_ of them, Clark's going to damn well sit this one out. A big white smile at Clark that says, you're not fooling anyone here, buddy. Something is totally up. "Maybe a little. Hot, Clark?"

He's seriously going to kill Lex for this. Pete, too, while he's doing the homicide thing.

"I'm fine." Clark fights the urge to squirm, but apparently the thought's enough, and he shivers at the feel of the material shifting--God, so good, so right, so _*not-appropriate for school*_ , and there's no possible way they don't notice him twitching like a cat in heat right now. Fingers closing rhythmically over the edge of the table and too sharp breath, and this is sooo embarrassing.

"You've been weird all day," Lana says, spearing a long, slim green bean with enough intensity to make Clark wince. "All through trig, you could barely sit still."

Thank you for sharing. Clark wonders if he should give Byron her new phone number.

"Huh." Chloe's sidelong glance is pure, unadulterated evil. The kind that he saw the day she let him sit in wet paint when they were painting signs for the Talon's fundraising booth. She's devious like that. "Clark, is something up with you?"

"Nothing!" How very convincing. And I'm not an alien with a silk fetish either! Forcing himself still, he stares down at the meatloaf. Unsexy meatloaf. Or so one might think. "I'm fine. Just--long day. You know."

Long day. Three and a half hours until school's out, longer than that until Lex comes home from work, and Clark's cock twitches at the very thought of Lex, all flawless-business formal. His hands twitch with the need to slide down, adjust, and no, he won't go to the bathroom, won't go to the bathroom, won't go--

"I'll see you in class," he says desperately, finding his feet. Three sets of eyes fix on him with amusement and surprise, and he's _*really*_ not up to this, not at all. Pasting on his widest, brightest, most insanely calm smile, the kind that serial killers always seem to have at some point during their trials, he grabs his tray, stumbling at the rub of silk from hip to thigh, everywhere. 

God, _*everywhere*_.

"Clark, you just sat down!" Pete's giving him * _that*_ look--that, 'you have a new weird thing and I wanna know what it is' look. That, 'are you wearing someone else's silk boxers, Clark?' look, though God, Pete can't know, can he?

Can he?

"Not hungry. Bye guys!" Almost tripping over Lana's backpack, and he thinks he can feel Lex's mouth on the back of his neck, pressed against his body, smooth silky skin and big, far too capable hands sliding over his chest. 

Kill Lex _*dead*_ , dammit.

* * *

First, though, fuck him through the mattress.

A mantra that's not helping with the arousal thing at all, but Clark's pretty much beyond such petty things when he's * _this*_ hard while the teacher drones on about Browning.

Scratch that. Every mattress in the castle.

Because three and a half hours and no chances to run for the bathroom is just cruel.

English drifts slowly by, like time itself has come to a stop, and Clark can see Lana and Chloe watching him from across the room, little flickering glances of complete confusion, of what on earth is Clark doing now, and every look just makes it harder not to move. To think. To ignore the soft brush of silk, damp from the fact he's been sweating and leaking and about _*this*_ close to coming for, oh, two hours and fifty-eight minutes.

And how did he get into this again? Right, right. Lex. Lex and his silk shirts and silk ties and silk fucking _*boxers*_ , and not just a few or a lot but like, the holy grail of collections of boxers--black, grey, lavender, pale green, rich purple, and that memorable pair of red that are impossible to wear anymore but kept for sentimental value. Neatly folded and sorted in the top drawer of his dresser where any innocent, obviously insane alien farmboy can go to look and stroke dreamily.

Lex, with that wicked tilt of his head, giving him a long, amused look before picking up the pair of discarded boxers from the night before. Black silk like water flowing over Lex's hand. 

Like a caress when Lex put them on him, long fingers trailing just before, sensitizing every nerve. Clark starts sweating again just thinking about it.

__

\--"Wear these for me today."--

And how the hell was he supposed to say no to _*that*_? Lex had slipped into the faded blue cotton that Clark had left beside the bed, unbearably sexy on his way to the shower, and that, dammit, is how this whole nasty situation began.

God, Lex, dressed in business best, but Clark's boxers beneath those exquisitely tailored wool pants. Lex's cock where Clark's had been only hours before, being stroked by Lex before the boxers made an unceremonious detour to the floor.

Lex's boxers wrapped around him like Lex's body, smooth and liquid, and class has got to end, class has got to end, now now now now....

The ring of the bell jerks him upright, kicking Clark's mind into blank shock, a faint part of his brain trying to connect it to something--what happens now again? Oh, right, end of class, and Clark can't swear he didn't use superspeed to get outside, only barely aware of the bright winter day, snow crunching beneath his boots.

He can hide out in the loft for the next few hours and jerk himself off to his heart's content. Which is going to be a _*lot*_ before Lex gets home.

A Ferrari is sitting in the parking lot when he looks up. Lex, leaning casually into the side, like this is any other day in the world and he isn't wearing Clark's cotton boxers under those completely impeccable clothes.

Lex, long black cashmere coat and a slow, thoughtful smile as Clark crosses the schoolyard, coming to a slow stop.

"Off early?" His voice is * _way*_ too high. 

"Personal time." Tilting his head, Lex's eyes travel the length of his body, and it's like having Lex's hands stroking his naked skin. The little smile widens, revealing a hint of white teeth. "Complaining?"

"No." Never. Not ever, and he takes a step forward, completely unable to resist the need to touch, school and legality and really really _*really*_ disapproving Dads and friends be damned. There's a hint of a cream silk shirt beneath all those layers of black that tease the eyes and make Clark's fingers twitch acquisitively.

"Hey Clark!"

Chloe is going to be the first against the wall when the revolution comes, no question. 

Fists clenched, Clark turns around, watching his own personal group of unwitting chaperones fall in a loose circle around them. No way to escape. What is this, mean-to-Clark-day? What the hell is _*wrong*_ with these people?

"Yeah?" Shifting his backpack, Clark can feel Lex's eyes fix on his ass just briefly, plenty long enough to get the entire visual of what they should be doing _*right now*_ , but can't, because, a, public place and b, friends. All of which are becoming less important by the _*second*_. Damn. _*Damn.*_

"I thought you were going to help out with the Torch this afternoon," Chloe says, eyeing him and Lex like they're a late breaking story, and her mental laptop is revving up in interest. LexCorp CEO Assaulted by Local Teen in Middle of School Parking Lot. Claims of Meteor Rock-Induced Silk Insanity Fall on Deaf Ears. The papers would sell very very well.

"Uh--"

"Your article on the football team," Chloe pushes eagerly, and Pete's grinning, and God, what are they _*thinking*_? Desperately, Clark turns a look on Lana, and right, he's supposed to expect help from her? The slight tug of a grin decides him.

They're all going against the wall. He's an alien--with any kind of luck, the rest of his people will come to conquer the planet in the next, oh, five _*minutes*_ , and that gives him a good four minutes to work out some serious tension in the tiny backseat of Lex's car and a minute to enjoy the afterglow. Sounds damn good right now.

"You're doing the sports section, Clark? I had no idea." Smooth as honey, and Clark turns wide, disbelieving eyes on Lex, who just looks too damn amused for words. The silk-wearing _*bastard*_.

"Clark volunteered since my original reporter failed chemistry," Chloe says brightly, like this is news that's worth mentioning.

"How serendipitous. How many has he completed?"

Is this conversation happening? Here? Now?

"Only a few--we're revamping the Torch's layout, so sports had to be rearranged--"

"As an advertiser, I'd be interested in seeing what you have in mind."

Oh God, no.

Blindly, Clark follows the chattering group of completely oblivious friends back into the school with a sense of impending doom. Silk, twisting and rucking around every sensitive inch, and Lex just--walking. Like this is just the most perfectly ordinary thing to do, and since the hell _*when*_ has Lex given a good damn about the school paper?

"Uncomfortable, Clark?" Smooth, just barely audible, and Clark turns his head enough to meet blue eyes that twinkle with pure, unadulterated evil. He's connecting with his dad's hostility all of a sudden.

"You have _*no*_ idea--"

"I like cotton," Lex observes, and Clark swallows, eyes going down and flicking over. Oh yeah. Soft, worn blue cotton, completely prosaic compared to the expensive wool slacks, and Clark can see Lex is as hard as he is. Something you learn with age, how to not wish death on anyone getting between you and your lust of choice? 

He runs into Chloe when she comes to a sudden stop by the door, and the flush is so hot that he wonders if heat vision's backed up or something and about to come out his ears. Blinking up at him, she frowns, but turns back to the Torch's door, unlocking and going inside, flicking on a light switch.

Viciously uncomfortable bright light, the easier to see Clark's flushing and squirming and wishing he were anywhere, anywhere else. A brief push against the small of his back sends him stumbling inside, and was that Lex's fingernails pressed so briefly through his sweater or did he imagine that? Swallowing hard, Clark tries to listen to Chloe chatter on about new layouts and color designs, flipping on her computer while Lex nods at vaguely appropriate intervals and Lana and Pete bend over the desk studying--something. 

Focus right now is _*not*_ his forte.

"Clark?" That's Chloe. Maybe it's the deer-in-headlights expression on his face that makes her blink like that, and the fact that Lex is casually leaning into the desk, one hand stroking down his own hip in a way that Clark has instant images of this morning's Lex in boxers and nothing else, still wet from the shower, and that isn't helping at all. Fuck. He will not blush, will not blush, will _*not*_ blush. 

"Yeah?" Be cool. Casual. Everyone exchanges underwear with their boyfriend, right? Right?

One blonde eyebrow arches, flickering glance going between him and Lex. Right, Chloe's not oblivious by any means, but she's not omnipotent. 

He _*thinks*_.

"Did you want to look at the final layout? You did help design it."

He did? 

It's the longest walk in history to cross that ten feet, and Lex stares at him-- _*stares*_ , like they're alone, like there's no one watching, like he's removing Clark's clothing one piece at a time and enjoying the view and that's _*not*_ subtle and doesn't anyone else see this happening? Lex moves aside just enough for Clark to slide in beside Chloe, cashmere brushing against the back of his hand as he leans into the desk, bending enough to stare blindly into the laptop's screen. For all he can comprehend, she could be looking at internet porn and he wouldn't know.

"Great--" He didn't imagine that touch. Hard palm on his back, sliding down by painfully slow increments, stopping at his ass before pushing up beneath the hem of his sweater. Sweat breaks out across Clark's forehead with the first touch of cool, leather-coated fingers pressing against the small of his back, sliding over to cup his hip.

Foreplay in the Torch. Yeah, this is hell. This is definitely hell.

"Clark?"

"Looks great," he manages. "I--like how you--did that."

"Did what?" 

Instantly, Lex is pressed against his back--oh so casually leaning around his shoulder to look at the screen with every indication of actual interest, like the bastard's hand isn't pressing against his stomach, fingers drawing idle circles on his skin, and his cock isn't pressed into Clark. Jerking his coat closer, Clark wonders if he looks as utterly out of it as he feels. The light, citrus scent of Lex's cologne, the edge of sweat and want just beneath, smells associated with sex. Long, hard, sweaty, loud, destruction-of-good-silk-sheets sex. Oh damn.

"I think he likes the color scheme," Lex answers, amusement rich in his voice. "I like the blue."

Kill Lex, kill Lex, kill Lex....

"I've been experimenting with the website," Chloe says brightly, and she's in the Zone. The Chloe-Zone of journalistic integrity, in which as far as she'd be aware, he and Lex could be fucking on the desk beside her and she'd never notice. Oh wow. Oh damn, what's he _*thinking*_? "The principal said--"

Her voice disappears when two fingers slide in the waistband of Clark's pants.

"...and Lana thinks we should add a space for the women's volleyball team's record here...."

Button toyed with like the most expert and frustrating tease imaginable, and Clark sucks in a sharp breath when the zipper eases down, and is Lex aware that they are, like, inches from Chloe? Granted, she's in a totally different universe right now, but she could snap back to Smallville any minute.

"...advertisers are moving to this spot here and here. We're changing the price scale...."

Palm over silk, cupping Clark's cock, and vision goes blue and black. Lex is murmuring something to Chloe about prices--prices?--Pete and Lana, he's sure, are still in the room but hell if he can figure out where, and Lex is jacking him slow and steady.

So good. So wrong on so many levels. But God, so good.

Obliviousness can only get you so far. Clark's pretty sure that any second now, Chloe's going to catch on that people are having sex _*right beside her*_ , and this will appear in the Torch as the cover story, no question. Clark Kent Can Get Laid After All, details forthcoming, and that's the second Clark decides sanity and discretion are overrated concepts.

"Chloe, I have some--" Produce to deliver. Lexes to nail. Air to breathe, somewhere, please. "Homework I gotta finish. Um. I'll--go over the site tonight. That okay?"

Like that, Lex's hand is gone and there's an inch of cool air between them, because no, Luthor boys with a taste for torture don't feel up high school students in well-lighted public areas.

"Um, sure." Her gaze flickers up only briefly--yes, get her involved in a story and all's well on the noticing-things front.

"You need a ride home, Clark?" Lex asks in _*that*_ voice, the voice that reminds Clark of dark melted chocolate being poured slow and easy, like they used last week on the kitchen counters with mind-blowing results. Sex-voice. 

How does Lex get through a single day without someone trying to bend him over his own desk anyway?

"Yeah." Jeans are going to slide down if he doesn't fix that zipper, and he steps away, trying to look subtle about fixing his fly. A glance shows Lana and Pete doing--something, that bears only the slightest resemblance to article-research, and Clark looks away, wondering if he's actually gotten to the point of eroticizing copyediting. Not a good sign. "Um. Ready?" Jeans secure. And painful now, his cock wondering what the hell is going on with the feeling-up-with-no-relief and making it clear it won't take this sort of behavior for much longer

Lex reaches into his pocket, and Clark finds himself holding a handful of cold metal.

"Want to drive?"

In _*his*_ condition? Staring at Lex, there's nothing but an impersonal smile, then a hint of a pink tongue sliding out between very white teeth. Fumbling the keys, he finds the right one, closing his hand over it as hard as he can. No pain, of course. That would make life _*easy*_.

"S-sure. Um. Bye guys." A wave from Chloe, a quick nod from Pete and Lana, but he's pretty sure he could have just announced his intention of making use of Lex's backseat for recreational purposes and they wouldn't have noticed.

  
Huh.

He can feel Lex behind him, just that centimeter too close to be at all decent or even legal, and Lex should come with warning signs of some kind. Big ones, like train tracks. Don't park within twenty feet or there will be problems. Something.

The hall's almost deserted, and Lex falls into step beside him, hands tucked blamelessly in his pockets, observing the lockers with unusual interest.

"I hate you." Low and careful, pitched for Lex's ears alone.

"You'd be surprised how little you can get accomplished when you can't sit still," Lex says, equally soft, and Clark shoots him a suspicious look. "Gabe thinks I'm high on something. I heard him mention an intervention."

Clark can't help snickering, but he's too hard to keep it up long.

"You know, despite my reputation for weirdness, Lex, people really do notice me twitching." Like now. It's a physical effort not to touch Lex--his palms itch.

Lex's might too--Clark glances down to see tight fists rubbing rhythmically against the cashmere covering his thighs, like they'd like to be doing anything but what they're doing. Inspirational.

"Come on." Touching Lex at all is probably a mistake, but Clark doesn't care. Electric, though--an actual physical effort not to stop and push Lex up against the sign that says Go Crows to his left, and Lex is tense under his hand. Blue eyes catch his briefly, flaring into pure heat, pure _*sex*_ , no, say it right, fucking. 

The librarian gives them a weird but not entirely hostile look, recognizing Lex with a nod over the edges of horn-rimmed bifocals, and Clark really doesn't like the way her eyes linger. Yeah, he gets Lex is attractive as hell, no need to rub it in, and while discretion states you shouldn't keep a death grip on a lover you're not exactly public with, well, discretion can take it up the ass. She's still looking at them as Clark makes a determined turn toward the steps leading upstairs, and Clark will swear that she's checking out Lex's ass.

Oh hell no. Clark's had eight nightmarish hours. Librarian-come-lately isn't even getting a chance.

"Clark, where are we going?" There's a breathless quality to Lex's voice that makes Clark's cock jump, and the wet silk clings in all the right places. Clark grits his teeth and tries to remember sentence construction.

"Mythology section." No one goes there. He hears a slightly hysterical chuckle beside him, but he's a man on a mission. One thousand, two thousand, Dewy Decimal System is a useful thing, because some numbers just aren't as popular, and then Clark makes a turn, finding the right aisle.

There's actual dust here. Good.

"Clark, this is a bad idea." But Lex is stripping off his gloves and tucking them into his pockets when Clark pushes him up against the bookcase, cool hands cupping his face. The first kiss is electric and Clark almost comes from the pressure of Lex's hips against his, cock pressing rhythmically into the hollow of his hip and he has to pull away just to remember how to breathe.

"Bad idea, right." Getting his hands under that coat, unbuttoning the jacket beneath, and oh hell yes, silk. So _*much*_ , clinging to his fingers and telling him that yes, this has been a long damn day, and yes, he deserves to mess up Lex's clothes. When he pulls the shirt free, there's wonderful skin underneath and he skims his fingers over it before kissing Lex again.

Wet, warm, desperate tongue thrusting into his mouth. Damn straight. Clark can't have been the only one suffering today.

"How'd it feel," Clark murmurs when he pulls his mouth away, finding the silky place just behind Lex's ear that always makes Lex squirm and jerk. The tie has to go. He gets the top buttons undone without anything too untoward happening, like, say, unexplainable tearing. Mouthing the newly-revealed skin, he hears Lex moan.

"What--"

"This." Probably a little cruel to reach down, cupping Lex through his pants, and Lex arches, making a new sound that probably hasn't been recorded in the human spectrum of speech yet. That's just fine. Pushing his palm in _*hard*_ , rubbing in slow circles that are going to drive them both insane. "Did you feel me?"

Because Clark sure as hell had his own private fantasy Lex in his pants all day and fair's damn fair here. Sliding a thigh between Lex's, he bites down lightly, oh damn, bruising, and he's supposed to be careful why again?

"All day." _*That*_ voice, and melted chocolate doesn't do it justice. Has to hate anyone who has ever heard Lex use that voice--Victoria and Desiree and the other random women who've wandered through Lex's bed, and experience may be important, but there's a lot to be said for sheer, overpowering determination, and Clark's determined right now.

He is all _*kinds*_ of determined.

"I jerked off in the bathroom twice," Clark murmurs, belt coming loose probably in self-defense, and has any button on earth ever worked so hard to stay buttoned? No, definitely not, and Clark's tempted to tear it. Sucking another kiss into Lex's collar, he shivers at the feel of Lex's hands on his back, writing into his skin with short, blunt nails, scratching along his spine in some arcane runic script that was probably used by Romans to incite the whatever god was in charge of sex. "Thinking about you. Could _*feel*_ you."

"Good." Soft, possessive edge, and hey, that's new. Very cool, not nearly enough to distract his cock, but hey, great to know. Hands on his ass now, pushing Clark's hand into the thankfully open pants and yes, Lex is so hard that's got to _*hurt*_.

Lex's hands tangle in his hair, dragging his mouth back up, and sharp teeth sink into his lip. Lex is moving like something out of a really really dirty movie and Clark gets his jeans undone in record time, silk and cotton separating their cocks, the slow rubbing so intense he could come just from this. The wet, messy kiss is pretty much wiping out higher brain function and he arches closer, sucking on Lex's tongue, feeling the first burn start--oh yes, oh God yes, Lex, smelling so good, tasting so good, feeling so good, and he grabs for Lex's hips and grinds them together frantically. Breathing's optional, hell, a pulse is optional, he has to come _*now*_.

"Fuck, Clark--" Breathed sharp and almost surprised, and Lex tenses--oh hell yes, Lex is coming just from this, wonderful, and Clark catches shocky blue eyes, pupils impossibly huge before his hands tighten even more and he buries Lex's groan in his mouth. Wet pressure against his cock, through the silk, and that's all he needs. Another grind and he's shaking, barely holding on to balance while the world turns upside down.

He comes back to earth when Lex presses a palm to his shoulder.

"Clark." Breathless, no where near sated. Just no longer riding the edge quite so hard, and Clark pulls away slowly, aware of wet jeans and wet boxers and God, the smell, which is going to make him hard again really, really fast.

God. Can people survive like this?

"Yeah?" Forget English. Clark feels lucky he's even capable of semi-rational thought.

"Let's go."

There are mattresses in their future. Lots of them.


End file.
